She Can't Be Really Gone
by ilovetvalot
Summary: Dave/Emily based off the Tim McGraw song lyrics. Oneshot.


_**Author's Note: So, it's been a while, our friends. Sorry for the delay in posting. But, I swear, I think my co-author and I have found a way to keep writing. **__**Ton and I have devised a new strategy. With eleven ongoing epics (and two more that we had not even began to post yet), we've come up with a plan. Each month we are going to concentrate on bringing you chapters of FOUR of the eleven stories we have out there. Each month, we'll alternate. Now, that doesn't mean that you won't get the odd chapter of the other seven stories ongoing during the month if the muse cooperates, but we want to bring you well written material and we think this will help. You'll also see oneshots, challenge pieces, and post eps (especially with our Shakespeare Series) during the month, too, but we'll only concentrate on four epics during any month. Make sense? I hope so.**_

_**For the month of April, we'll be concentrating on the epics, "Southern Traditions", "The Girl Who Lived", "In Sunshine or In Shadow", and "Sweet Silver Lining".**_

_**At any rate, those of you not familiar with our work, please swing by our forum, "Chit Chat on Author's Corner" for ongoing discussion threads and challenges. We'd love to have you.**_

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**She Can't Be Really Gone**

His footsteps carried him slowly up the path to the door, each heavy and labored. His hand trembled noticeably as he slid the key into the lock and he steeled himself as he opened the door.

The familiar smell of their home was the first thing he noticed, and the aroma was enough to nearly send him crashing to his knees. Sugar cookies and vanilla.

Oh, not from anything so mundane as actual cookies. She'd never cooked. But she loved her candles. He once kidded her that if the wax ever became edible, they'd be eating a feast.

Somewhere inside him he knew he'd never set match to wick again.

Throwing his keys on the mahogany table inside the door, he winced, the noise almost a vulgarity inside their still home. Shrugging out of his coat, he turned to hang it in its usual place on the oak coat rack. Spying her familiar black cashmere overcoat, he swallowed, reaching unconsciously for it, his fingers caressing the soft material.

Releasing a shaky breath, he headed toward the stairs, his body feeling markedly older than it had when he'd left the house this morning. But then, he was older. And everything had changed.

Nothing in his life would ever be the same again.

Stopping outside their bedroom door, David Rossi squeezed his eyes closed as he prayed for the strength to face what lay beyond the safety of the hallway. Stomach clenching, he slowly reached for the brass doorknob and twisted carefully.

Then he immediately regretted the decision. He didn't have the fortitude to step across the threshold. Never a man accustomed to feeling adrift, he faltered outside the now open doorway. Already the intensity of his memories threatened to overwhelm him.

Across the room an empty antique crib taunted him cruelly - a baby's bed that would never again be used. Desperately trying to control his trembling chin, he lifted his head and glared.

He'd told her it was too fucking early for that, he thought caustically.

Great, now he was blaming her. Fucking perfect. It wasn't her fault that a child would never fill the void in his heart. Except, in an odd way it was...without her, he knew he'd never again want another child...not without her.

Forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other by sheer force of will, he moved into the room, cursing as he tripped over a pair of her shoes, carelessly strewn in front of the bed. Bending, he picked up the offending article, his heart cracking in his chest as he held it against him.

A simple blue ballet slipper threatened to shatter him.

He'd been with her when she'd bought that pair of shoes. He'd been impatient and surly, trapped in a shoe store with a woman that loved a good buy even though she had the money to by the very best from the top designers. God, why hadn't he enjoyed the moment instead of being his typical arrogant self? He'd had her then. He could see her, touch her, smell her. And now...

Dropping the shoe back to the floor with nerveless fingers, he shook his head as he sank down on their bed.

Another mistake.

An epic one.

Already her scent wrapped around him, threatening to submerge him in feelings he wasn't prepared to face.

She couldn't really be gone, could she?

When they'd woken up this morning, it had been just another routine morning. They'd bickered over the bathroom and her penchant for extra long hot showers. They'd shared their morning coffee, decaf now for her, as they'd perused the paper together, each commenting on the headlines of the day.

Nothing exceptionally special…except for the fact that it had been. And he hadn't even realized it at the time...he hadn't appreciated the moment when it had been upon him. He couldn't be blamed for taking it for granted, could he?

Christ, if he'd known those were their last moments together, he'd have said so much. He'd have known to tell her that he loved her. His greatest regret was that meaningful sentiment had gone unspoken between them. Sure, he'd tried to show her in a thousand different ways how deeply her love had affected him. It had made him a better man. He'd always assumed he would have more time to garner his courage...that there would be another opportunity to verbalize what he'd never convinced himself he was ready to articulate.

But time had run out.

Abruptly.

Quickly.

And, oh, so permanently.

His chance had been lost.

He could still feel the weight of her hand resting in his. He could still almost hear her soft sigh whispering in his ear. If he looked over his shoulder, would she be there, he asked himself, barely suppressing the irrational urge to turn his head toward the doorway to their bedroom.

Reaching for her pillow, he brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply as if to take her essence inside him.

She can't be really gone, can she?

His eyes found her nightstand easily, her glasses resting innocently on the book she'd been reading just last night. She wasn't finished with it; her FBI name badge still held her place. A half finished crossword puzzle still rested against the lamp, her decisive handwriting filling the cubed blocks.

It wasn't done. There was too much left undone.

It couldn't be possible that she'd leave so much unfinished, was it?

"Damn you," he whispered against her pillow, rage and pain swelling uncontrollably inside him. "Our story wasn't complete," he breathed raggedly, accusing her invisible presence inside the room. "I wasn't ready!" he yelled hoarsely.

Cursing as a sob claimed him, he shook his head furiously, holding her pillow against his chest. It was incomprehensible to him. If she'd been shot, that he could have understood.

But it was unfathomable to him with a job as dangerous as their own, how a car accident could have torn her from him. One icy patch. One vehicle careening into a median, crossing traffic and she was gone.

It hadn't been at the hands of a deranged unsub. No, she'd been at the mercy of a loaded semi with failing brakes. Her Prius hadn't stood a chance.

And neither had she.

And now, if the fractured heart still beating in his tightened chest was any indication, neither did he.

His chance had been lost and it had taken his soul with it.

**Finis**


End file.
